


The Witcher - Destiny.

by EvilApril



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Comfort, Dark, Death, Developing Friendships, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Exhaustion, Fights, Fist Fights, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Injury, Injury Recovery, Magic, Magic-Users, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Monsters, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Sad and Happy, Spoilers, Story Arc, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:53:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilApril/pseuds/EvilApril
Summary: Witcher Tv Series (set after episode 8) Spoilers.After finally finding Cirilla, Geralt has hard choices ahead of him and a destiny that he is not yet sure he wants. With a life threatening wound, a young princess to protect, monsters lurking and a war raging far to close, the journey will not be easy. But it is one he must make.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 140





	1. Much More...

Amongst the thicket was a range of towering trees, some slender enough to be a splinter while others stood strong roots embedded deep within the earth. No matter how hard the wind would hit, these trees would hold ground. Hardened ember eyes narrowed as if trying to stretch the limits of one’s vision, however the Witcher could clearly make out what was approaching, his eyes deemed deceitful far too quickly. There was no trickery from his senses, the cold air stung in lungs all the same, the smell of soggy grass and decomposing leaves beneath his boots was as suspected. What his eyes showed him appeared to good to be true, life never known to deal cards so gracious. The long bright golden hair stood out in forests natural colour palette of green and brown, the lingering grey morning fog not able to conceal the luminous locks. The child’s dirty but vibrant ocean blue cloak was wrapped around her slender shoulders, fluttering behind her as she ran his way. Blue, another shade that did not belong to the surroundings, it was if a piece of the sky had fallen landing stranded in the forest. She was in front of him within seconds, a look of relief creased her brow. Geralt looked down upon his destiny. Never had the Witcher seen so much emotion swirl within blue, green tinted eyes. He stared back his own eyes as wide as hers. No words crossed between them, the young princess of a land in ruin, reached her arms out giving Geralt only seconds to react. She hugged tightly digging her face into the White Wolf’s shoulder, tears fighting to be freed. Geralt could sense the mental weight that the girl carried from her journey, from everything she had witnessed of the cruel world in such a short time. The trees leaned closer in curiosity. The wind went quiet. It was if this moment had been written in stone from days long ago and the world was anxious to see it played out. The Witcher looked out in front of him, seeing more than just trees.

“People linked by destiny will always find each other.” Geralt broke the silence, he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to his young charge or more of a realisation to himself, that not even he could escape having a destiny. A fate that would unravel weather he wanted it to or not. The two pulled away from each other after he had spoken, Cirilla again gazed up at him questions obviously on her mind.

“Who is Yennefer?” Was the first thing Geralt had ever heard the child utter, this only being the second time he had ever laid eyes on her. So, for Cirilla to mention the name of a mage he had stumbled upon, who he had bed, posed more questions than answers. Before anymore could be said Geralt found himself on one knee. An agonising pain had gripped him and brought him down. The Ghoul bite on his leg was more potent than he had realised, the throbbing had transcended into a searing pain. The muscles in his left leg seized as they were attacked by the foul effects of the Ghoul saliva. It now dawned on him that he had been merely given time, time which was fading fast. A small hand lifted his head, his white hair grey from dirt.

“Geralt what’s wrong?” Cirilla now asked for a third time, her previous attempts going unheard. He let himself sit back, a shaky hand reaching out to the crude bandage around his leg. “Your wounded?” fear of loss rippled through her voice, it was as if she knew the full extent of what appeared to be a minor wound.

“I’m fine.” He poorly lied, his shaking hands giving him away as he peeled back the bandage. The wound was mostly sealed by the potion he had doused it with, but the blackened rotting flesh was spreading, the veins travelling through the wound now black instead of blue. Geralt fought to stand, even with protest from the girl.

“You are anything but fine.” She argued, having to balance the man when he tilted forwards. Her hands pushed against his chest, the silver medallion around his neck brushing against her delicate pale hand. Geralt righted himself, cursing under his breath as he held himself up. Every second he could feel his strength fading, he reached out for the nearest tree to keep him on his feet. The moist moss that covered the bark felt good against his burning hot skin, sweat beginning to accumulate. He leaned his shoulder against the sturdy structure, that alone could not keep him upright. He tried again to simply walk, to make his way back to the residence of the merchant who had brought him here. He made only one step before collapsing. A bed of dead leaves doing there best to break his fall. 

“Geralt!” Cirilla dropped to the ground at his side, pulling him onto his back with a grunt of effort. Animal eyes stared blankly skyward, the world slipping in and out the more he blinked. “Geralt, how do I help you!?” Tears glided down her cheeks slicing a path through the dirt on her face. It took to long for him to process the simple sentence she had spoken clearly to him, and he wasn’t even sure if he could attempt a reply.

“Butcher!... Butcher!” Came the familiar shout, Cirilla eyes darted up. The merchant who had brought him to safety was making his way through the trees, wife at his side who had cared so lovingly for a child that was not her own.

“Help please!” Cirilla cried out, quickening their pace. “What’s wrong with him?” She whimpered as the couple knelt on either side of the battle worn Witcher. Geralt knew they were there, he could see them, smell them, sense them. But everything was starting to blur the tree canopy swirling above merging with the veiled sky. The merchant looked to his wife, choosing not to respond to the question Cirilla again had asked. 

“We need to get him inside.” The urgency in his tone spoke volumes, even with this insight Cirilla just found herself with more questions. That was all she had since her home and childhood was ripped from her, all she had left was questions to call her own. The merchant latched onto one of Geralt’s arms, his wife the other heaving the muscular man to his feet.

The Witcher lay restless upon a wooden bed, leather and wools beneath him for comfort. Little good it did him as his brow burned like hot coals, sweat polling on his sternum. With his worn black grey tunic removed his collection of scars were now revealed. Cirilla sat watching the rise and fall of the Witcher’s battered chest, as if her eyes demanded they did not halt and to look away would see them falter. Footsteps manifested from her side, but she did waver her eyes. She listened as water was rung from a cloth before witnessing it being placed upon Geralt’s forehead. Eyes closed he flinched away from the contact, the woman proceeded pressing it against his skin no matter how much he pulled away.

“I’m sure he’ll pull through.” She offered words of comfort, still Cirilla’s eyes never moved, hardly blinked. She didn’t need to see the woman’s kind face to know she spoke lies. Geralt did not settle forcing the woman to leave the cool cloth on his chest. “Can you watch him for me?” She then posed the silly question brushing aside her hanging red hair. Cirilla never saw the warm smile she presented but nodded in agreement all the same. She felt a squeeze on her shoulder a touch of sympathy, then she was alone in the room with the dying Witcher. From her dream she had recognised Geralt in the woods, only from that deeming him a friend. Whispers could be heard from within the cottage, the couple clearly not wanting their words of worry to be audible.

* * *

Pain slithered through Geralt’s veins as he floated within a black void. He knew not where he was or how he got there, memory fragmented, eyes closed. Even in his delusional state Geralt wanted to remember, searching through the blur causing unpleasant flashes of imagery. A Ghoul baring its teeth from the shadows, bright blonde hair being pulled around by the wind, endless trees constricting around him. His breathing quickened, mind restless from the adverse effects of the monster’s foul bite. His eyes opened and he stood amongst the trees. Geralt eyed his surroundings an unsettling feeling in his stomach as the main he had been enduring vanished. He looked down at his infected leg, his trousers were intact, feeling with his fingers no teeth marks lay under the fabric. Looking up he found a fog had rolled in. Whispers now echoing around him. Geralt stood his ground just turning his head looking from left to right trying to pierce the unnatural gloom with his mutated eyes. His ears unable to make out what was being muttered by the trees.

“The girl in the woods will be with your always.” The familiar voice rang true through the bending tree’s the fog thickening as it tightened its grip. “She is your destiny.” A monstrous cry came from bellow a rotting hand reaching out from the earth and leaves gripping his leg. The ghouls face burst from the ground teeth biting into the flesh of his lower thigh.

Geralt’s eyes snapped open, the burning within his arteries had returned. He pushed himself off his back, surprised to find himself in relative comfort with a roof over his head. He didn’t manage to keep himself in such a position for long his arms giving out on him, returning his back to the bed. 

“Thought we had lost you for a second there Butcher.” Geralt let his head roll to the side, where he found the source of the voice. The merchant, Yurga, sat beside him ale in hand as he leaned forward. The room was dark, candle flame providing the only light.

“Where’s…”

“On your left.” Yurga answered before Geralt got a sentence out. He rolled his head to the opposite side of the pillow, there he found Cirilla curled up upon a wooden chair a woollen blanket lovingly draped over her, her eyes closed, fast asleep. Exhaustion written on her young face. “She has yet to leave your side.” He then mentioned, Geralt hearing the man take a mouthful of his drink, the wooden chair he sat upon creaking from age and overuse.

“What happened?” Geralt croaked, still watching Cirilla as she slept, his head not making the journey back to the other side of the pillow.

“You collapsed Butcher, you were barely with us when we dragged you back here.” He could remember being drawn to the forest, finding Cirilla amongst the aged trees, as well as the unusual name she had spoken. Geralt tired again to sit up this time a firm hand kept him down.

“Lay still.” Geralt reluctantly settled down, however he knew it for the best, a fever still resting on his brow. He faced the man who he had saved and in return had offered him aide, such kindness Geralt’s was not accustomed to towards his kind.

“Why did you help her? Why did you help me?” Geralt suddenly questioned, no emotion in his voice, the tone almost accusing the man of foul play. Many men would be insulted with such an accusation, particularly when their heart was in the right place. Yurga sat comfortably, his face not twisting to show distaste towards the questioning, instead a quick smirk formed on his lips.

“War is upon these lands, death everywhere, least we can do is help those who need it.” He took another swig of his drink. “Not to forget you saved my life.” Yurga raised in tankard briefly, inhaling the last of his ale. Upon realising this he stood. “I’ll go fetch a couple more, one for me, one for you Butcher.” The man left smiling, slightly wobbly on his own two feet. Geralt looked to the wooden ceiling doing his best to ignore the agony spewing from his leg.

“Why does he call you that?” A small voice spoke from his left. Geralt faced her way, the manoeuvring of his head not presenting a favourable feeling.

“What?” He full well knew what she was asking, he was just unsure if and how to respond.

“Butcher.” Cirilla clarified, she too catching on to his hesitation to answer. 

“Because of a day that favoured none.” Geralt, even though cryptic was surprised he graced her with a truthful answer. She did not prod the matter further, but with so many questions she found herself asking none. Either there where so many to choose from or she feared the answers she would hear. Her chance then fluttered away as the merchant returned, two full frothing ales in hand.

“A warm ale on a cold night will fix you right up.” As Yurga sat back down he noticed Cirilla had awoken in his absence, he greeted her with a smile, first wanting to tend to his friend in need of an alcoholic beverage. Geralt refused assistance in lifting his head, using his elbow to get him slightly upright to take the ale from the man, as well as take a few good swigs. Yurga quickly took it back when it was presented to him, letting Geralt fall back against the bed. The effort of such a task was more taxing than he could have imagined. The room seemed to spin, a haze covering his eyes, gritting his teeth to keep back any visual or audible signs of pain.

“Time you got into bed miss.” Yurga’s wife announced herself. “Come now Nadbor already rests.” She stepped beside the girl and extended her hand wanting Cirilla to take it. There was an exchange of looks between Geralt and the princess, with his tired eyes he did his best to let her know he was alright. Even if it was a lie. Without a sound she pulled the blanket from her and stood, taking the woman’s hand as if it was her mothers. Leaving the merchant and the Witcher alone in the small room.

“Where will you head?” Yurga asked, having started slurping down the ale he had fetched for his guest.

“The blue mountains.” Geralt mumbled, sleep calling him.

“Your still not in the best of shape Witcher, do you really think it’s for the best?” Yurga’s concern was heart-warming but it wasn’t going to keep breath in his body, nor Cirilla safe.

“It is.” Geralt managed to whisper before his eyes slipped closed and he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, finished watching The Witcher when it came out and have been coming up with a story ever since, chapters will be long so there will be a bit of time between them. I loved the series and hopefully you guys will love this Fanfic. Let me know what you think of the series and this chapter :)


	2. Morning

Vision’s haunted Cirilla’s dreams, mostly flashes she couldn’t make sense of. First fire blazed she could feel ash in her nose, then water swallowed, a pale hand sucked under by an unidentifiable force. The water went red with blood, a foul scent in the air.

“Wake up!” The hushed shout brought Cirilla from her sleep, the images she had seen preserved within her memory. She breathed heavy the moon providing the only light through the small windows. Yurga’s wife had hold of her by one shoulder, the terror on her face instantly frightening Cirilla. Not given the chance to say anything she was pulled from her bed, the red-haired woman having gathered her shoes and cloak.

“You must leave, Nadbor is saddling your horse.” Her words were quick though quiet, there was little time wasted in her speech, all her movements swift. Cirilla now had her grubby cloak on her shoulders as well as her boots on her feet, still having not yet managed to say a thing.

“What’s happening?” She uttered, keeping her voice low.

“Come quick.” The loving wife and mother guided her to the door, she grabbed a burlap sack from the floor, string pulled to keep the contents within. Cirilla attempted to peer through the dark, into the room afar with the door ajar. There she had left Geralt resting. Her eyes could see nothing, just the empty dark. 

“What about-”

“Yurga and I will assist the Witcher after.” She assured swinging open the cottage door having noticed the child’s gaze. Cold air thrusted its way in, turning breath white. The night appeared peaceful, the clouds rolling gently above no quarrel with the lands bellow. With the moon unveiled, stars at its side, everything was bathed in subtle light. Once adjusted vision was clear. Cirilla immediately could make out a figure approaching, however could not discern who it was.

“I can no longer see lights, they’ll still be coming.” Yurga informed, still heading towards the two. At this moment she was then able to make out his face, having come close enough to not be blurred by shadows.

“Go help the Witcher.” Yurga nodded in agreement at his wife.

“They can’t be fa-” Yurga was cut short, an arrow having pierced through the back of his head, the metal tip peaking out of his mouth. His eyes were wide, a gurgle coming from his throat as he choked on his own blood. The blood black in the moonlight as it poured from his mouth. A harrowing cry from his wife ripped through the night. Yurga fell forward dead. Hands snatched Cirilla back into the house, the now widow slamming the door shut. She could just make out the stream of tears on the poor woman’s face. They where then out the back door, heading round the back of the cottage to the small stable.

“Nodgar! Nodgar we need to go now!” She cried out for her son. Sniffling she pulled open the barn doors. There they found Roach clearly distressed, saddle on his back, bridal secured around his head, satchels lay across his lower back just behind the saddle. At his feet, at his feet lay the corpse of a young boy. Eyes wide in fear, throat slit, the straw under him sodden with blood. The widow without a son made no sound, she dropped to her knees where she stood. Crying silently as she crawled over to her child. She was covered in his blood almost instantly, cradling his head in her shaking arms. There was no time to mourn as the front barn door was forced open, Cirilla had to watch as the woman was snatched up by a man in black. Within moments she met the same fate as her boy. The blade danced across her throat, arteries being sliced, blood spurting. Her body dropped upon her son’s, there blood mixing as it poured from her throat. Her attempts at a scream had been pitiful, her last breath painful. Cirilla went to run when someone snatched her up from behind. A gloved had reach over her mouth halting her scream, little good it would had done her with only tree’s as bystanders. She kicked, thrashing around in his grip. Roach pulled at her rope, rearing up as much as she could in the confined space. The man in black who had swiftly taken a life right in front of her suddenly hit the floor. Cirilla was dropped to the ground. On her hands and knee’s her head snapped up, a sword sliced through the air above her, a cry let out from behind. Her eyes found Geralt, blood dotted on his face and tunic. He leaned heavily on the door way, trying not to look down at the pile of bodies at his feet. He straightened, out of breath as he picked Cirilla up. She was not on her feet for long as she was then lifted onto Roach. Cirilla was lost for words, but then again what words would be expected of a child in such a situation. She watched over her shoulder, mouth without words as Geralt stumbled over to where his sword resided, embedded in the corpse of a man in black. Snatching up his blade the Witcher returned to his horse, before he mounted, he retrieved the burlap bag that the woman had carried to her death. Once in hand he tied the bag to Roach then released the binds that held the horse in place. Geralt grunted as he pulled himself up behind Cirilla, boots planted in the steel stirrups, vigorously prompting his companion to ride, to propel itself forward at speed. Roach carried them out the newly christened tomb, blood on her hooves. Cirilla eyes couldn’t focus at this speed, shadows took the land and her vision was almost completely taken when they entered the forest. 

* * *

Geralt pushed Roach till she couldn’t go no further, her short brown coat slick with sweat, glistening in the fresh sun that had just crept over the horizon, the tips of the canopy welcoming the suns gaze to remove the frost that had taken residence. The leaves stiffened by the cold. Even though the night was over, it weighed heavily on Geralt. Blood still stained his face and cloths. Cirilla half asleep in front of him, a firm arm around her to keep her upright. Keeping himself within the saddle was hard enough, in the tense moment his wound had been nothing more than an inconvenience. Now it gnawed away at his strength, his senses dulled. The beating of Roach’s hooves on the rigid earth thudded in his ears, although fatigue wanted to claim the animal’s muscles, she fought on trying to show little sign of weakness. Geralt pulled back on the leather reins, forcing his noble friend to stop. Roach’s warm breath was white as she exhaled rapidly. Cirilla was jarred awake by the sudden movement and straightened herself.

“We should be safe for the moment.” Geralt grunted as he heaved himself down from his horse, his wounded leg gave out of him, luckily, he still held onto the well-worn saddle, Roach keeping him standing. Gritting his teeth with his forehead against Roach he felt eyes watching him. As suspected once he raised his head, he found Cirilla’s looking down at him. Steadying himself on his good leg Geralt reached up, bringing her down from her vantage point.

“Why is this happening?” She begged for an answer, an answer Geralt did not have. He turned away from her beginning to sift through the bags strapped to Roach. The silence was almost as painful as his leg. Geralt found his own belongings within his bags, as well as additional supplies, most within the sack he had pulled from the widowed woman who he couldn’t save.

“We must keep moving.” Geralt pulled wrapped bread from the sack, offering it to the frail frame beside him. She took it without a second thought, her hunger ravenous. A flask was quickly discovered, allowing him to tend to his horse. He did his best to not waste water, pouring the clear liquid into his free hand allowing roach to quench her thirst. He then handed it to Cirilla. Hobbling he reached up, lifting the rains over the horse’s head, gripping them in hand and leading forward. Even in his awful state he could only hear the thudding of hooves and his own footsteps. He turned to see what his ears had already determined. Cirilla standing her ground, holding the leather flask in her tender hands.

“Why is this happening?” She again pleaded, having travelled so far, she wasn’t about to go any further without an answer for her troubles. Geralt sighed as he had no answers for her, but something needed to be said.

“You’re the last of your line, the Nilfgaardian’s want to take the north. You stand in the way of that future.” Geralt did his best to bring reason to murderers. Even though not entirely content with the response at least it was something, he watched her head tilt down in defeat. She had only just found him and was not willing to be on her own again. She moved his way, meaning Geralt could lead Roach on. He flinched when he felt Cirilla’s hand take a hold of his, muscles tensing as if preparing for pain. His hand remained in hers, looking down on the young girl who he was always going to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reviews, really appreciate the feedback. Hope this chapter is as good as the last and the story is progressing well. Thanks again.


End file.
